


Cut From Marble

by luckybarton



Category: Yellow Flicker Beat - Lorde (Song)
Genre: Based on a Lorde Song, Fantasy, Gen, Jukebox Fanworks Exchange, Jukebox Fanworks Exchange 2018, Magic, Magic-Users, Royalty, Songfic, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckybarton/pseuds/luckybarton
Summary: They used to shout her name—now they whisper it.





	Cut From Marble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/gifts).



> Based on the song [Yellow Flicker Beat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PdILZ_1P74) by Lorde. I recommend listening to it either before or after reading the fic.

Sesani, even in death, had a cult of thousands. Since her resurrection, their numbers have grown to millions.

It is often said that it is impossible for a regent to be unsuitable for their position, at least, permanently. Eager rulers will become more conservative in their actions as they age, or die in firefights; reluctant ones mature. The saying has become more common, but Sesani has already changed. It is against both state and ecumenical law for a person beside the rightful heir to hold the throne when that person is alive. 

We have always considered the royal family to be a manifestation of deity, but their worship was a fringe movement. An antiquated path followed only by demented elders and wide-eyed youth. That is no longer the case, and I shudder to think of what will happen when her near-immortality is revealed as well. 

Sesani was crowned in extreme circumstances: she had previously expressed a desire to never take the throne. Privately, she had studied to become a healer; when her training was complete, she would leave the palace. It is rare for members of the royal family to have any aptitude for the magical arts, but Sesani is an exception. It was rumoured among the members of her mother’s court that she was not borne of the same father as her siblings. Her reluctance to take the throne was, therefore, not worrisome but politically expedient, as her lineage would have been put to question.

A healer myself, I trained the Queen when she was young. Studies beside politics, art, and war were frowned upon as studies for young royals, but her mother insisted. If Sesani was never to ascend to the throne, she was to pursue something of use.

Perhaps I am the one who saved Sesani, in the end. Perhaps the magic I taught her protected her in the arena in Nnekab, let her survive as her skin turned to marble under the touch of their alchemists. Sesani will not see me, but as I have not yet been arrested, I may assume that her thoughts on me are positive. Most others who survived the ransacking of Kamune have been imprisoned—or executed outside the palace ruins. 

Nnekab is the capital city of Tsente, several days’ journey to the north. Their coliseum is well-known; our kingdom’s rivalry with them even more so. As of this morning’s proclamation, we are at war. I think that most saw it coming: for the last several months, the army’s recruitment efforts have been stronger and more obnoxious than ever before. Now, there must be enough soldiers to stage an attack. Perhaps the goal is solely to take Nnekab; perhaps it is to salt Tsente’s lands and raze their villages. The propaganda so far has only covered motivation, not goals.

I know very little, but one thing I do know is this: if Sesani is leading the charge, Tsente will burn to ashes.

I said that Sesani will not see me; that does not mean that I have not seen her. I was called upon when she was returned to the kingdom. Her identity was already proven. They only wanted someone from her former life to speak to her.

It was then that I found out the truth: Sesani does not speak. Not in the same way as others do—her tongue, like the rest of her body, has become stone: immobile except at joints, and the colour of the storm. She can manage clicks and no other consonants; with a stylus, she can write cuneiform, but not all words correspond to a logograph. Writing phonetically is a slow process. Sesani hated it. Tsentet’ script is easier, but she refuses to write in it.

Eventually, she consented to a medical inspection, though most of my knowledge was inapplicable. Her body was crossed over with electrum markings. When I asked about the history of one, she inscribed ‘axe’ in the clay tablet. I didn’t probe further. Scanning for other elements revealed only marble, all the way down; the depth of the scars ranged from surface-level to halfway into her body. 

The Tsentet’ have turned their infantry to stone for decades, with steadily improving levels of efficacy. Now, I am told, we have reverse-engineered their process.

She didn’t know if the invaders knew who she was when they sold her on instead of torturing her. She had been wearing the robes of a healer, not a royal. Now the purple has returned, stained with the innards of a thousand snails. The distress signal our defense archmages had picked up on had also been the royal one; it was commonly thought to be a counterfeit or a ruse, but a delegation had been sent regardless.

The Tsentet’ have taken this as a sign of aggression, so it’s possible we would still be at war with them had we saved a commoner or lesser noble instead. But now, with seismic weaponry and our own stone soldiers, the prospect of war is ever more terrifying. Sesani could put herself at the frontline of every battle and never risk defeat; stand before a line of incendiary mages and walk straight through the flames. She has no natural sense of fear, now; she seems to be frozen in a constant state of rage. Sesani has already changed, and there may not be return. A few have spoken to her: those scarce nobles who she has not yet thrown to the lions. Their words do not reach her.

I have, however, heard news from Tsente. After Sesani’s declaration of war, her identity became common knowledge in their kingdom. They have seen her fight. It is rumoured that she never lost a battle, though this may be exaggeration. But the name she took as a gladiator—once strung on banners across Nnekab and shouted from every section of their arena—is now only whispered by the brave. This is my last hope for our kingdom: that our enemy is as afraid of our queen as I am.


End file.
